245 THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
Let dimpled Mirth his temples twine 
With tendrils of the laughing vine; 
The manly oak, the pensive yew, 
To patriot and to sage be due ; 
The myrtle bough bids lovers live, 
But that Matilda will not give ; 
Then, lady, twine no wreath for me, 
Or twine it of the cypress-tree. 
Let merry England proudly rear 
Her blended roses, bought so dear ; 
Let Albin bind her bonnet blue 
With heath and harebell dipped in dew; 
On favoured Erin’s crest be seen 
The flower she loves of emerald green— 
But, lady, twine no wreath for me, 
Or twine it of the cypress-tree. 
Strike the wild harp, while maids prepare 
The ivy meet for minstrel’s hair; 
And while his crown of laurel leaves 
With bloody hand the victor weaves, 
Let the loud trump his triumph tell; 
But when you hear the passing bell, 
Then, lady, twine a wreath for me, 
And twine it of the cypress-tree. 
Yes ! twine for me the cypress bough ; 
But, O Matilda, twine not now ! 
Stay till a few brief months are past, 
And I have looked and loved fny last! 
When villagers my shroud bestrew 
With pansies, rosemary, and rue,— • 
Then, lady, weave a wreath for me, 
And weave it of the cypress-tree. 
